The next unicorn

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In this post I’ll be breaking some of the English rules and inventing new ones. English lingo has been loosely used for obvious reasons.

I am a better man now, in terms of health and shape. My performance, endurance and speed have significantly improved. This is not the case with my bedroom game, the odds are still against me as I have not healed properly. Not even close. I am judging my performance in relation to what I am weaved to do. With such a job, things are always unclear, deadlines are unpossible to beat, promises hard to keep, and hard to show up when truly needed.

For reasons known to me and one other person, I am back to my old boss. My boss is an ass. I am allowed to call him that. He knows so heself.  He an ass because he can call you anytime, even if it’s in the middle of the night. Since there is no way you can ignore a call from a phone that you sleep with on your breast pocket, you’ve to pick it. If he calls, and asks you to leave your house immediately, you leave. It doesn’t matter if you were giving your wife a good pussy panel beating. You just have to withdraw your member, hurriedly slip into your pants and leave without looking into her eyes because she’ll be looking at you with both contempt and scorn. You temporarily seal your ears when she cusses and calls you a loser- a man who can’t say no to another man- a weakass.

It is therefore difficult to have a regular writing schedule. I used to like Wednesdays. I still do. But since my boss is a cow, we might have to do with any day of the week when time slips me a ticket for breathing.  This means that it is utterly important that you subscribe for timely updates. To subscribe, find this button and then enter your email. Click subscribe. We shall send you an email asking you to confirm your subscription. It is important that you go to your email and confirm your subscription so that you can be getting updates as they come.

This is what I am talking about.

My boss called me in on Monday.  He had this juicy deal for me, he said. That is the word he uses when he wants to put my life on the line while his ass rests in the comfort of his office from whence he offers instructions and awaits a fat check from the government exchequer.  Then he’ll divide that check into a number of operatives, peanuts of course and then swing in his seat, his fingers on the mouse, cruising through MR PORTER looking for a nice Kingsman suit to order. On the other hand, I’ll be running against bad winds and chasing bad men, breaking into people’s homes, people I don’t know, breaking into offices, and stealing things that don’t belong to me, things that I feel should be mine but aren’t, so that I can take them back to my boss, or destroy them.

Other times, I’ll be the one being chased, trying to outrun men with THE ROCK physiques. Some will catch me, seldom events, others will watch me disappear into alleys and into throngs of people, never to see me again.  Sometimes it would be Jack and I, but now Jack is on a wheelchair because he lost his back after we were blown up last year. His injuries deteriorated, each day pinning him to bed until he could no longer walk.

Imagine of your whole life passing before you while you’re on a wheelchair. Nothing is wrong with ending up in a wheelchair. But I want  you, for some resounding reason, to imagine how your life could change if you were 31, full of energy, young, vibrant with the whole world of possibilities on your shoulders- then one day while working, an accident ends your walking capabilities.

When I went to see him last week but one, I found him outside in his pjs, looking into the morning sun opening its eyes from the eastern horizon. He was looking at the sun as if he was envious of its shiny glitter. There was a certain look in his eyes that suggested blankness. There is a way things can turn against you that you start thinking there nothing worth living for. That was the look I saw in him, the giving up look. He was already tired. I felt sad, not because he was on a wheelchair, but of the possibilities that I could end there. There are many chances for me to land even in a worse mess. Good thing is that every day I wake up I ask God to prevent bad people from hurting me.

I meet my boss in his new, lush office in the leafy suburb of Lavington. I am to get a new partner soon. Someone to keep an eye on me when I am doing shit. I find him (The Honcho) with his legs up his fancy desk. He has hefty papers in one hand, a cigar on the other. I don’t greet him because I am still mad from the way things have been going on lately- their negligence, mostly. The kind of risk they put us through is immense. I don’t know how many times I have ducked bullets, one thing I am sure of is that one day one might catch me doing my silly moves. It might be the end of me or the start of my deformity.


We head for a job. Collecting intelligence involves many stages, groups and unlimited resources. You don’t choose where to be after you get in. You take what you’re handed. The hardest part, however, is being in the field.

It is my first time in Mombasa. It is a shitty place to be if you’re from Kisii. The heat is depressing. You’ve to walk almost naked, carry 20 gallons of water, in order to survive. We hop into this old station wagon, my new Partner (whom I really don’t like because she has a unicorn on her neck that keeps staring at me as if my presence is irritating, plus she talks rapidly and often). She’s the driver as I don’t have a DL yet. I often wonder why I don’t have a DL at 27. Of all the things.

She is chewing gum loudly. The only refreshing thing about her is her Nick Minaj body. Half of her chest is almost outside, so it’s a wonderful scene to feast my eyes upon. She drives around like a drunk. The radio is blasting, she loudly sings along. I can tell that we’ve got a long way to go together as partners, starting with that glaring unicorn on her neck. At least it can be covered by a pull neck sweater. What I don’t know yet is if she can shut up and concentrate even if it is for a minute.

She drives me to places so interior that I feel she wants to kidnap me. She looks like a nasty, beautiful kidnapper that you’ll never suspect. The remote villages of Kwale are so bad that you feel that you’re not in Kenya any more. We go past the villages, unsure of where she’s headed.

Along the road, she starts to tone down. She diverts off road and pulls over a kilometer later, in a very deserted, dangerously-looking area. Without giving notice, her fingers find their way into my pants. I forget about the unicorn momentarily. There is a sudden gush of confusion that roots me in my seat as she unzips my fly and grabs my member before giving me this wonderful bj that leaves me moistened with relief. You know, as man, when you ejaculate, you feel lighter. You lighten up; there is a feeling of being unburdened. I look at her with bewilderment. Things have happened so fast that I can’t figure out what just happened.

In my entire life, this is the second woman to offer me a bj. There are many men in this Kenya who don’t know how good it feels your dick being sucked.

That simple, yet so deep-throat affair changes my perception towards her. I haven’t had a woman who, out of nowhere, pulled my dick out and gave me a full-throttle bj. So this, in a way, feels specially confusing and exhilarating at the same time. She is an outlier. She is a go-getter. She is not defined by society and its bended rules. I tell myself. ‘She is confident, clothed in a carefree spirit. She is a princess, an empress with dignity that doesn’t have a name. Her own dignity, defined in many ways but one- I don’t what I want so long as I feel good about it.’

I don’t judge her. I understand that she’s a modern woman, bred in new world order, where women are allowed to fight for what they want, to go anything like a man would do and still remain classy and on top of the game.

We unleash conversations, varied in length and topic, going to worlds (in our minds) unimaginable (because she a free thinker), an open-minded lady with a unicorn. She drives around, showing me places and villages, telling me stories about the local people and beyond. She is such a storyteller, wearing a rich mind that reels on a spin of well-woven words that spit knowledge, essentially when needed while hooking you to the realm of the narrative.

I slowly follow her, treading carelessly into her wide, wild world, of things she done and experienced, worlds she seen and traded punches and fists with, and of people she’s had to deal with in order to be the wise-ass she is. She tells me a white man who once fell in love with her because of this unicorn that I keep ignoring (it cannot be ignored because it abhors my presence). A white man who found her so attractive with it. He’s the person who made her come out of the closet, and start wearing blouses. Before, she would don pull necks or throw scarves over so that she can cover it.

The day ends, we retire to a hotel room where our operation is based. Here is where our plans are. There an assortment of equipment and one of the things that catch my eye is the gun that lies silently in a case like a harmless kid who wants no trouble. It is long since I held a gun. Seven months have passed by, and that feeling of seeing something as sexy as a long-ass gun makes me whet with excitement. But I let me go of my cravings. One thing I know is that if I were allowed to carry a gun even when I am off work I’d smoke some people. There are so many bad people that I meet in Nairobi, people who deserve a bullet, nothing else, I’d clip these douches without second thoughts. Perhaps the reason why in hell I don’t get allowed to carry one after work.

We are to spend three days in Mombasa. Three days in an intelligence work is like having 20 minutes to run 50 kilometres. You want every second to count. Therefore, it boils down to a plan, and sticking with it no matter the contingencies. Plans fail, all the time in fact, but when you’re prepared, you can manage a plan B immediately.

The following two days we follow a certain man, a mzungu. We break into his house and steal documents. Two mad dogs scare the shit out us and raise hell. I hit one on the head with a rock. It tones down. The other one keeps calm when it sees the other one sprawling on the ground with agony. We act sitting ducks at the parking lot where his kids go to school. We follow his wife to the supermarket, salon and to a hotel.

Another guy, a third guy who I wasn’t aware of, puts a tracker on the mzungu’s car. I watch that guy leave in a hurry. He has a suit that I would wear to my wedding.  That makes us know that there are other interested parties in play.

Back at the hotel we wire messages back to Nairobi on our findings. We scan the documents and send them too.

I come back to Nairobi a different man, perhaps- because my first assignment after injury is not as sweet and playful as I thought. But I am glad I can be getting my adrenaline up the mountain once again.

I come home to find that a pal of mine had shagged a woman in my crib and it is smelly as shit. There is no way I can sleep here, I tell myself. I take a nduthi to the stage where I take a mat to a lodging. I am heavy with sleep but I pass somewhere to buy one litre of yoghurt.

I call my friend and ask him to go and clean my crib. Respect another man’s property, that’s the rule. He used sweat to build/gain it, when he offers you a chance to use it, you use it carefully and leave it clean.

When I wake up, it is Friday. I suddenly remember I have not done this week’s piece. There is no juice in my head. All I can remember is this wonderful bj all through. I really miss it.


This is bullshit. Good thing is that I am up and healthy. I feel good. I can hustle, I can run, I can fight (a little), I can lash out a cock (though poorly), I can eat, and I can talk. The best thing to be is being healthy. I look at Jack and feel a deep feeling of sympathy. He has already lost war. He is one of the reasons that I thank God for good health.

Let’s meet next week, not sure of the day. Hope you’ll remember to subscribe.

Mzangila Snr,

Where shall we go, we who wander in this wasteland in search of better selves?

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About Mzangila

Mentor, media consultant, photographer, editor, poet, writer, and counselor.

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